Gunnar A Motorcycle Club Romance - Nina Levine Page 0,20

room.

“Joe tells me you celebrated a remarkable success at your job this week,” Andrew says, referring to the financial analysis and subsequent advice I gave one of the companies I work with that helped them double their profit this year. I received a huge bonus from my company for my work on this.

I look at my husband. I wasn’t aware he cared enough about my work for this to be something he’d share with his family. Smiling at him, I say, “Yes, I did.”

Joe returns my smile and takes my hand in his. Placing it on his thigh, he keeps his hand over mine. This is all so weird and unexpected that it stuns me into silence. Joe doesn’t do displays of affection, especially not ones that feel real.

“Congratulations,” Andrew says, drawing my attention back to the conversation.

“Thank you.”

Andrew shifts back to discussing business with his son while Rachel and I fade to the background and stare into space, waiting for them to finish.

When a lull hits the conversation, I look at Joe and say, “I’m going to check the roast.” Sundays are the only day I cook because our staff all have the day off, and I always cook a roast for our family lunch.

He nods and lets my hand go.

I excuse myself and hurry into the kitchen, desperate to distance myself from Joe’s family.

The roast is ready, so I pull it out of the oven. I spend some time fussing with it and the roast vegetables before reaching into the fridge for a bottle of wine. I’ve just poured myself a glass and taken a gulp when Rachel joins me.

“I’d love a wine, Chelsea,” she says, surprising me. Rachel doesn’t usually indulge in alcohol.

I smile and grab the bottle back out of the fridge. “Absolutely.”

She takes the glass I offer her, looking more grateful than I’ve ever seen her. “Thank you.” She guzzles half of it, and I have to restrain my eyes from popping out of my head. Placing the glass on the kitchen counter, she says, “I’m just going to pop to the bathroom, dear.”

I watch her leave and wonder what’s going on with her. I’ve never seen her like this. She actually seems like a normal person like this. Maybe even like someone I could get on with.

Joe’s phone, which is sitting on the kitchen counter, sounds with a text, so I grab it to take it into him. He handles a lot of high-level investments that often require immediate attention, so this could be an important text.

I slow as I draw closer to the living room. Joe and his father are arguing, and when they’re doing that, I don’t want to be anywhere near them. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s nasty.

“I’m not doing it, Dad,” Joe says, his voice harder than usual.

“You will do this, Joe, and you’ll fucking do it tomorrow.” His father’s voice slides through my veins like ice. And poison. That’s the best word I can use to describe how his father makes me feel: like I’m being poisoned just by being in his presence.

“Christ. Do you have any idea what you’re fucking asking of me?”

I frown. I’ve never heard Joe sound torn like this. Like he genuinely doesn’t want to do what his father is ordering him to do.

“Yes, I’m asking you to step up for your brother. For your family.”

“No, you’re asking me to commit a crime.”

“We both know it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done that, son.” Andrew’s voice drops low as he threatens, “If you refuse to do this, you could find yourself in hot water over some of those previous crimes.”

Joe turns silent before spitting out, “There are days where I wonder whether you’re actually my father.”

“Trust me, boy, I wonder the same fucking thing sometimes.”

Oh, God.

The doorbell sounds, and I rush to the front door to answer it. I don’t want to hear any more of Joe’s conversation with his father. Andrew is toxic, and I fear my husband will become like his father one day, which is something I don’t even want to contemplate.

“Chelsea, darling,” my mother greets me when I open the door to her.

“Hi, Mum,” I say, stepping aside to let her in. She air-kisses me as she moves past me, but we don’t embrace. We never embrace. It’s not the Novak way.

Dad follows her in with a “Chelsea” as his greeting. Already, he’s all business, and I have to admit that I’m grateful for Joe’s heads-up